


My Oath To You

by YoungJusticeAddict



Series: Just One Yesterday [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Bullshit Alien Magicks, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical Cursing, F/F, F/M, Hidden Siblings, M/M, Mutism, S13 Continuation, Temporary Character Death, carwash siblings, deafness, lying, taking creative liberties with alien temples
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9977603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoungJusticeAddict/pseuds/YoungJusticeAddict
Summary: “See you on the other side, Church.”“Not this time, buddy.”Tucker made a promise to Church that he would see him on the other side. After a nasty battle with Hargrove's forces, he discovers that Church-Epsilon-is gone. In his quest to bring his friend back from the dead, he brings back ...well...everyone.





	1. Eh, We'll Wing It

**Author's Note:**

> Woo! My project for the RvB Big Bang!  
> All art by the wonderful wash-needs-a-nap! Check her out on tumblr!

**One Week Ago…**

_ “See you on the other side, Church.” _

_ “Not this time, buddy.” _

The thing is, death is sad. It’s always sad. No matter who it is, there’s always some bit of empathy for the ones who lost their lives, good or morally questionable. 

But other times, death is just the end of a story; a beautiful, brave, comedic tale. A story that will be told for generations to come. One the little kids will hold near and dear to them as they age. One that the survivors of will equally cherish and despise as the years pass by, the absence of their fallen comrades still an echo of pain hollowing out their chests. 

It’s not easy. It never is. They don’t hold a funeral on the third day, not really. It’s this little memorial service thing, but it’s not a real funeral. They thought about it, and they decided it would be better if they waited. For the UNSC. For their ticket home. They thought that his family should be there, what’s left of it anyway. The family that he’s tied to by blood, not just the one that he made being in the military, being stationed at the dumb box canyon in the middle of nowhere and nearly dying every other week. 

They thought, well, Carolina thought, it’d be better if he went back home. She’d suggested it. She was right. Give him a proper burial, with the rest of his culture, whatever that may be. She couldn’t figure it out, she couldn’t remember from her teachings about different cultures on Earth what theirs was. She is so educated, beyond belief, her head is so full of things; but right now, it feels so goddamned empty. 

When they brought Tucker back - after prying him out of the floor of the ship Hargrove was reportedly inhabiting, and brought him back to their little base, the one they ran to after Armonia blew, to the tiny medical station Dr Grey ran - every single screen lit up. Surprised the hell out of their soldiers and Kimball. Reds and Blues had no idea. Wash nearly got whiplash from how fast his head spun around and Carolina froze solid in her boots. Epsilon relayed a message, something prerecorded and that wall, an impenetrable force of steel and ice, formed around her heart again at the the very first syllable. 

Epsilon was gone. 

And now here they were, tending to their wounded, grieving over the dead, with one more to add to the list. He mentioned that he had separated himself and left them with more AI. Fragments of fragments. 

They were not recovered. 

Something happened. Nobody knew. Nobody understood until much later. They just knew that whatever Epsilon had left, aside from the messages, was long gone. They were totally alone. It was up to her now. 

She was the last standing Church, and like throughout history, she would reunite her people. She would give them hope. She will give them strength. She will be their temple. Carolina Church will give them an altar to speak before. She will give them a ghost to worship. She will help them process their grief. Someone to blame for their agony. She would be what they needed, since it was her family’s fault they were put here, that they lost family of their own. She will forever carry that burden so long as she breathes. 

And even in death, she will still be remembered as his daughter, his soldier. But to them, she hopes to be something more. Through this, not through black text on pretty white pages listing her inherited and influenced crimes against humanity. But through perseverance and compassion for the simulation troopers that saved her little brother, that helped destroy a corrupt organization, and that saved her from herself, among other things. She hopes to be remembered by them as Carolina, their impromptu leader and voice. Carolina, who was their sun in a storm. A step in helping them move on. God knows she’s been there enough times, gained enough knowledge to teach others how to make it through this. She can dissociate, separate from her own feelings long enough to get them through the worst of it. She has to. For them.

For the Reds and the Blues. For Wash, should he need it. For their lieutenants, who lost a captain and a friend. For the city that was once Armonia, and the soldiers who once resided there. For their leader, a general grieving in her own way as she orders her troops to continue moving, to continue making rounds and keeping a defense over their little canyon here on Chorus. Carolina stands ready at her side, offering a shoulder or a hand, and small words of reassurance as the exhausted head of their community delivers somber words concerning the status of the simulation troopers.

They’re missing four pieces of their colourful puzzle. Two dead, two comatose. It doesn’t look good. It’s been a week since the stand on Charon and they’re all still picking up the pieces. Even Carolina herself, but she’d never show it. Wash can tell, though. In the way her voice cuts through the tense air that’s suffocating to the rest of them as she orders the younger soldiers to complete menial tasks. She’s keeping them occupied. Keeping their hands steady while the rest of them threatens to fall apart. It works, until Jensen is bawling her eyes out two feet from Carolina because she can’t handle the stress. Carolina takes her away, her touch gentler than he’s seen in years as she guides Katie down the halls to her bunk. They emerge hours later, helmets disguising their reddened eyes and going straight back to work. Like nothing.

Wash doesn’t know how she does it.

He’s failing at this. Miserably. He was sad about Epsilon, sure. Even after what happened years ago, after Epsilon temporarily stole his sanity and completely skewed his future, he was still sad to see him go. Epsilon was important. There was no doubt about his advantages in the field, and all of the things he had accomplished since awakening, but there was more to it. He was a brother to Carolina, someone who has been alone most of her life. He was a friend to Tucker and Caboose, a replacement for their friend that Wash helped kill. With Epsilon around, he hadn’t felt the full burden of that. Epsilon was shoehorned into Church, so him offing the Alpha didn’t change much of anything for Blue Team. They still had a Church, he was just a little different. Things were fine. He didn’t have the chance to feel too guilty about it.

But now, rapping his bare knuckles on Caboose’s closed door, he felt the guilt eating him alive.

There was movement behind the door, but no response. No acknowledgement that Wash had been heard. No attempt to open the door. Not even coming near it. 

It had been six days. Six days since the troopers came back and their big blue idiot locked himself in there. Six days since anyone had even tried talking to the guy, a mistake on their part, on his part. He was the leader of their team. He should have shown up a lot sooner. Never should have let the kid lock himself away, let him be alone. They were a team, and they were gonna grieve like one. Even if half their team was either gone or incapacitated. 

“Caboose,” his voice was soft, “I’m going to open the door, okay? You don’t have to do or say anything, I just want to come in, alright?”

Something muffled came from behind the door and the corner of Wash’s lips pulled up in a small smile. He took that noise as an okay, and pulled the keys from his waist. They’d learned years ago never to give Caboose a room with a lock without it having multiple sets of spare keys. Even Red Team had a few keys to his room for emergencies.

The door didn’t make a sound as he pushed it open. No creepy whine of the hinges or drag across the concrete floor and Wash was grateful. He didn’t want to startle Caboose since he didn’t know what kind of a state he was in.

“Caboose, I’m going to turn on the lights, okay?” Wash flicked on the lights and took in the pristine condition of the room. 

Naturally, Caboose’s quarters is considered “enter if you dare” territory. His floor is consistently blanketed in spare parts and thingamabobs to tweak and experiment with during downtime. Stepping on those is worse than those old-Earth, plastic children’s toys parents complained about. Wash and Tucker gave up a long time ago trying to get him to use a desk or workspace. Nope. Prefers the floor. More room. Sarge agrees, which doesn’t help things at all.

So when Wash sees every possible inch of the floor in front of him, and all pieces of machinery piled up in a box in the corner, concern is an understatement. His eyes scan the rest of the room. The dresser drawers stick out a little, probably overfilled from the extensive cleaning that occurred. His armour is stacked neatly on top of the dresser, boots placed at the foot of his bunk on the floor.

Caboose was laid up on his bed, curled around a stack of journals on top of the covers. The journals are worn, yellowed pages wrinkled with writing and water stains that puff out the paper so they cannot close flat. Wash recognizes a few. The ones in the bottom of the stack are from just after the crash, when Caboose wrote and drew about his adventures and memories to deal with Church and Carolina’s departure.

The ones on top are newer. They look like the rest of the journals used to catalog everything important, from mission records to newly discovered personal medical information. Grey and Kimball must have given him those. Or maybe Palomo or Smith. Anything to keep him happy, Wash supposed.

He knelt by the edge of the bed, where Caboose could see him. The regulation blue soldier’s eyes followed his every move attentively. “May I look at your journals, Caboose?”

Without hesitation, Caboose nodded and nudged the stack closer to Washington. The Freelancer gently opened the top journal without removing it from the pile, eyes flitting over all of the seemingly random text and numbers scribbled messily across the pages. Some of it made sense, like Epsilon’s name and some of the math written hastily across the lines. The rest, however, was too garbled to understand.

“Caboose, what is this?”

“It is a plan,” he mumbled. “ It is not ready yet.”

Wash turned a few more pages, “A plan for what?”

“A plan to save Church. He is lost. And alone. He misses me. We must save him, Agent Washington.”

Wash stilled, eyes snapping to Caboose’s. They were sad, soft and ever so damn  _ hopeful _ . He couldn’t do this.  _ Shit _ .

“Caboose…”

“You see, Agent Washington, Church always comes back. He is very good, like a boomerang. He always finds his way back. I think he needs a little bit of help this time. And I can do that. I am his best friend. He would want me to help. I can help.”

Wash gave the trooper a pained smile. He couldn’t tell by his tone if he was trying to convince Wash or himself. “Okay.”

Caboose’s warm brown eyes flickered between Wash’s visor and his open journal. “Okay?”

Wash nodded, closing the journal carefully and moving to stand, gathering them into his arms. “Okay. Let’s go to Doctor Grey. She might be able to help find Church too.”

Caboose sat up, crossing his long legs underneath him, “You were lost too. It took you a very long time to find me.” 

He adjusted the stack against his chest, fighting against the hurt that bubbled up when he stated Washington’s absence so  _ factly _ . “I….I know, Caboose. I had to take care of a lot of people, but you’re right. It did take a long time, and I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

* * *

 

“Didn’t I tell you to skidaddle, Agent Washington?”

Grey’s words halted him mid-step in the doorway to the make-shift medical unit they’d created here in the canyon. Wash watched her walk up to him and place her hands on her hips, “I  _ distinctly  _ remember ordering you to remain anywhere  _ but  _ here for the next twenty-four hours. You’d better be dying or delivering me a dead person, Agent.”

“Actually,” he let his foot fall and straightened, holding out his armful of journals, “These are Caboose’s. He’s trying to find Epsilon. He would like your help.”

When his name was spoken, Caboose looked over Wash’s shoulder at Grey. She looked between the two of them and took the offering. “Fine. Come with me, Caboose.”

Wash stepped further into the room to allow Caboose entry. He towered over Doctor Grey as they both crowded into her office, standing a good two feet taller than her. Once they closed the door, Wash removed his helmet and peeked into the room to his left, deciding it was alright to stay a while since Grey was distracted.

He settled softly into the chair next to the occupied bed, hoping it wouldn’t break underneath the weight of his armour. He scooted closer to the bed, enough to cross his arms on the edge near the sleeper’s leg. Wash heaved a sigh and forced himself to glance up at his face. 

They left his earrings, Wash notes. The aqua bands in his hair remain too. Tucker’s dreads frame his head and neck, falling into the crevice where he meets the pillow. The bands nicely contrast against his scarred skin. It’s  _ his  _ colour, Wash decides. That shade of aqua was created for Tucker, and no one else. Not even Carolina. 

Part of him is glad he still gets to see that shade of aqua. The Stand on Charon...god they were  _ fucked _ . They weren’t lucky. They were far from it. Screw anyone who says they’re lucky, those people don’t have their friends and comrades ten feet below them in a makeshift morgue; laid out on tables, under sheets and bare save for a toe tag.

The other part of Wash wishes that shade was moving. He wished it was alive and active, bitching about sore calves and a miserable fucking life. A life he is still able to live if he  _ just woke up. _

Grey told him that morning that it was Tucker’s choice now. The beating he’d taken during the fight raised his chances for permanent vegetation or impairment. Grey had put him under with some drugs Wash couldn’t name when they brought him in, and stopped those drugs last night. It was a coin toss as to whether Tucker would open his eyes or not.

“Tucker, wake up,” Wash whispered. He rested his head on his folded arms, watching Tucker’s chest rise and fall to the little ping of the heart monitor.

“Please wake up.”


	2. Mirabilia

**Present day….**

White light greeted him painfully. It was too bright, too overpowering. It was not very welcoming.  _ Fuck  _ this light.

He groaned and stretched his arms out, slowly brushing against something...spikey?

Sitting up as gently as he could, Tucker reached for the rough space again and heard a sigh. He froze, it didn’t come from him. Blinking, he focused on what made the noise.

The one that trapped his attention had his face buried in the sheets by Tucker’s side, but the greying hair and neck scars were enough to identify the exhausted Freelancer.

Tucker slid his fingers down Wash’s face once more. He hadn’t shaved in awhile. 

Distracted by the sleeping Freelancer, he didn’t notice that another had come into the room until she went to ruffle Washington’s hair. His hair that was too long, too grey, too unkempt compared to the regulation crop they had become accustomed to; the sim troopers were becoming a bad influence. Or good. Whatever you want to go with.

That seemed to be too much attention for Wash to handle, and he jerked away from both hands. The bags under his eyes looked much more prominent when he was startled, Tucker decided. Noticing Tucker and Carolina, he relaxed a bit.

“Easy, Wash. We didn’t mean to wake you.” Carolina announced. “But it’s good that you are. Tucker’s finally awake.”

“Finally?” His voice was scratchy and tired, and he winced as it escaped him. Wash was fast, holding a glass to Tucker before he even finished the one word.

“You were on a ventilator. Just took out the tube a few hours ago, so you’ll be a little sore for a while.” Tucker took the water and Wash rested his hand on the edge of the bed, absently tracing the wrinkle in the sheet. “You’ve been out for a week, Tucker.” He informed. “After the battle with Hargrove, we found you knocked out. Grey had to put you in a coma to protect you.”

Tucker sipped the water as he spoke, eyebrows knotting in confusion. “What happened with Hargrove?”

Carolina looked down to meet Washington’s gaze. Their silent conversation only lasted a minute before they returned their sights to Tucker. “You and the others took on Hargrove’s armies after disabling the Mantis droids. It was a nasty fight. A lot of you were injured by the time Wash and I arrived for evac.”

Taking a pause, Tucker wrapped his head around this information. He couldn’t remember the fight itself. He couldn’t remember anything after putting on the-

“The suit,” he whispered. That caught Wash’s attention and he spoke quickly to aid Tucker in remembering.

“Yeah. You were wearing it when we found you. Sarge said Epsilon had you put it on to help win the fight. Said he thought all the enhancements would be good to get everyone out of there.”

“But it didn’t,” Tucker added, watching Washington’s face. He tried not to change it  _ knowing  _ there were people watching him, but the emotion flickering behind his eyes gave away everything. “Who?”

Carolina took over then, “Grif. Doc too, almost. He was shot in the head. Went straight through his visor into his left temple.” Carolina shifted her gaze between the two before continuing. “He’s in a coma too.”

“Donut won’t leave his side,” Wash. Carolina’s gaze flickered between them, something remaining unsaid.

“So...Grif’s...dead?” Tucker said, unsurely. It didn’t seem possible. Grif had been so close to death so many times, and yet managed to skid away by the skin of his teeth. No way he was actually  _ gone _ .

Washington nodded, his jaw clenching. Tucker looked down to his hands. What was the last thing he’d said to Grif? When was the last time they hung out? Beside him the heart monitor jumped at his panicked pulse, startling the Freelancers. Carolina moved closer, while Wash met Tucker’s eyes, worried. The teal trooper shook his head, muttering, “What happened?”

It took Wash a moment, but eventually he explained. “As soon as Carolina and I landed to meet you guys, more soldiers showed up with weapons to take out the Pelican. Red Team mowed them down, but Simmons….his gun jammed.” Wash looked away from Tucker, took a deep breath, and released a long sigh, “He was going to die that close to the enemy without a weapon. Sarge stepped up, but took one to the shoulder. It only knocked him down for a second, but it was enough time for Grif to step in front of them both and try to fight back.”

Carolina picked up the end of Wash’s tale, “Grif was down by the time we made it to them. There was nothing we could do but take out the guys that shot him. Which we did.”

Tucker nodded, never taking his eyes off Wash as they talked. He looked to Carolina when she finished, “Is Simmons alright? Did the bullet damage Sarge’s shoulder? Where the hell was Lopez? What about everyone else? Will there be a funeral or something?” He rambled, unsure of what all had occurred while he was out. His voice was better, but still sounded sore, “We should at least burn an oreo or something in remembrance, right? No, he would be offended at the waste of food.”

Wash put a hand on his shoulder, “Easy, Tucker. We are working on something for him, don’t worry. As for Simmons,” he looked to Carolina, “He blames himself for his gun jamming. I don’t think he will ever forgive himself for what happened to both Grif and Sarge.”

Carolina changed her stance, stiffening a bit, “Wash, why don’t you check on Donut. He might need to be reminded to eat today.” Wash removed his hand from Tucker, and she continued, “Give him a little hope. Tell him Tucker has woken up, and it’s only a matter of time until Doc does too.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bottle of purple polish, “And give him this. Tell him he’s gotta look presentable for Doc when he wakes up.”

Wash smiled a bit and stood, taking the polish, “Where’d you even get this?”

“Grey.” Her answer was short and he nodded, pocketing the bottle and glancing once more at Tucker in his bed before leaving to the next room over.

Carolina turned back to Tucker. “Simmons is struggling, and we don’t know what to do. We’re worried he won’t make it through this.” She took a seat in the the chair beside him and sighed, “Sarge is fine. He had his armour to block a lot of the damage, but it still went through it. He says it’s just sore, but Grey’s barred him from training and missions until it’s healed.”

“Sounds like Sarge alright,” Tucker added. “Has Sarge tried helping Simmons? He did always have an appreciation for the old bastard.”

Carolina shook her head, “He’s been worried about Donut. Kid hasn’t touched anything in days. Food, magazines, hair dye; nothing. Sarge has been giving his all to bring him back into the swing of things, but honestly?” Her voice dropped, her resolve failing her, “I don’t think  _ anyone  _ is going to be alright. Too much has been taken from all of you this time.”

Tucker let her words settle in the air, shoulders drooping as he stared at his legs underneath the medbay sheets. She was probably right. It’s completely surreal. Grif is  _ dead _ .  _ Doc  _ is in a coma.  _ He  _ was in a coma. Their group was more broken now than it’s ever been. He looked back to her when she spoke, reaching to pull the uncomfortable IV from his arm.

“I need you to give me all of the information you have on the other Reds and Blues. You know these guys. You’ve lived and fought with them for years. You know how to pull them through this and get them on the track to healthy grieving.” She sighed, “I’m still an outsider to them. I scare them. And while that is helpful for almost anything else, it isn’t right now. I’m not the right person to help them.”

“And you think I am?” Tucker asked, astonished. “Yeah I’ve spent a lot of time with them, but not as much as you might think. I only know stupid shit. Like even if there was nothing else to eat, Simmons would starve before he touched a burger. Stupid fucking vegan bullshit.” 

He gestured to empty parts of the room as if they were those he spoke of. “Caboose has really bad nightmares, but it’s stupid shit like bunnies on fire. You gotta tell him they are wearing fire-retardant suits and they work for the circus before he’ll let you out of his grip; hoping he doesn’t fucking suffocate you before you finish telling him everything’s fine. 

“Sarge talks in his sleep, and it’s usually about Grif and Simmons. Occasionally you’ll hear that he left a kid behind, but he wakes himself up so he doesn’t feel guilty.”

Carolina listened intently, watching the other soldier ramble on about his friends. “Simmons cries in his sleep. Like full on bawls. I don’t know what the fuck happened to him, but it seemed like Donut and Grif were the only ones who could calm him down without waking him up.

“Grif hid cookies in his helmet. Don’t even ask me how he fit them in there. He said it made it easier when they couldn’t stop on the road or on missions. Fucking weirdo.

“Kai was really fucking flexible, not that I ever got to experience that,” Tucker winked at Carolina, who let it slide. His face turned down when he realized a mistake. “You haven’t told her yet, have you?”

Carolina raised a questioning brow, “No. Who’s Kai?”

Tucker covered his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes with his palms, “Grif’s baby sister.” He removed his hands and stared off into the corner. “She’s still in Blood Gulch. She got left behind to guard the base….” He sighed, “Of course you wouldn’t know who she is. The only Freelancer she met was Tex. I don’t think she even knows where we are.”

Carolina tensed at the mention of her rival, and examined Tucker’s face carefully, watching as it twisted into something thoughtful. “What is it?”

“Kai. You can’t tell her about Grif.”

“Why not? She deserves to know about her brother.”

“Because I have an idea.” Tucker sat up completely, pulling back the sheets and letting his feet hit the cool linoleum flooring before he was stopped by Carolina.

“What do you think you are doing? You just woke up from a week-long coma. You aren’t going anywhere.”

“Chill, Carolina. I’m just going to figure something out. Nothing too strenuous.”

Carolina glared at him, but didn’t try to stop him. This was  _ kind of  _ what she wanted. Though, she would have preferred it wait until the next day when he was well enough to be out of bed.

Tucker easily made his way out of the recovery room, and searched the base desperately for his new armour.

* * *

 

The first thing Tucker wanted to do after escaping Carolina was throw on his armour and get to work, but when he passed the hallway leading to the captains’ personal bunks, another thought crossed his mind. 

He turned down the hall, taking a deep, calming breath as worry flickered across his thoughts. This could very well be a bad idea. There was a chance Santa wouldn’t be able to help him, and he would only be getting Simmons’ hopes up.

His feet stopped in front of the maroon soldier’s door, but Tucker kept his gaze ahead. Caboose’s room was at the end of the hall. He could easily just slip in there and let the stupid shit spouting from that big blue idiot distract him long enough to forget talking to Simmons at all. It would be so easy to let annoyance and frustration replace this pit of anxiety burning low in his chest, to let Red Team Problems be Red Team Problems. The Reds always fixed their own shit without Blue Team. Simmons and Sarge could probably rig up some big dumb machine to bring Grif back themselves, so why was Tucker even bothering to help?

Something in the back of his mind whispers it’s because he cares. That he cares about Simmons and Grif and the lot of them, and maybe he does. Maybe this little, familiar voice is right and he does care about these assholes, but there’s no way he could ever admit that. Not here, not now. Not in the midst of their grieving. Not when he’s about to tell  _ this  _ dude he was gonna go out and find  _ his  _ dude.

He shoved his barely-acknowledged feelings down into the dark recesses of his mind, where he kept his insecurities about being a terrible father and his unrequited affections towards certain striped assholes hidden and buried. Maybe, when they left this godforsaken planet and returned to safe, civilian life, he could take a shovel and deal with it all like a healthy, normal person.

Yeah.

Totally.

His knuckles found the surface of Simmons’ door before he even realized, and knocked softly a few times. He left his fist on the door, not sure what he should prepare himself for. Maybe he should have prepped a speech before he knocked.

The door swung open, and Tucker quickly moved his hand to rub at the back of his neck as he took in the distraught soldier before him. 

The last time he saw Simmons without his helmet was only hours before they tossed Felix off a cliff. Before Locus switched sides and helped them eliminate his psycho boyfriend.

_ Were  _ they boyfriends? Tucker never got a chance to ask.

Locus probably wouldn’t tell him anyways.

Back then, Simmons was Simmons. His red curls were smashed down from the helmet, pressed into the skin of his forehead, only to be freed when he laughed and his forehead wrinkled as he scrunched up his face in a chuckle. His face was pale but lively, fresh despite not having showered in days while they came to the head of their encounters with the enemy. His eyes were bright, literally and metaphorically. The robotic eye’s artificial iris glowed even in broad daylight, and his human eye was filled with hope and something more; something Tucker couldn’t place but told himself he would name it later, after they were done here.

He realizes now that he should have figured it out sooner, so he could try to replicate it after seeing how bad things had gotten while he had been out.

Simmons stood before him, as white as Grey’s armour. He didn’t think this little nerd could  _ get  _ any paler, but the trooper staring him down proved it was possible. Tucker’s gaze snapped to his eyes, and he saw that hope from before completely absent. His hair was wild, unkempt and knotted, no doubt from tossing and turning all night. He looked like shit, and Tucker felt the pity puddle low in his stomach.

The aforementioned anxiety bubbled up his throat, spilling off his lips before he could help himself. “I promise.”

Hesitating in the doorway, the ginger blinked in confusion, “What?”

The hand on his neck fell to gesture between them, “I mean-uh…..shit okay.” Tucker’s eyes darted everywhere other than Simmons’ face, finding several cracks in the wooden doorframe, two scuffs on the tile beneath his feet and four knots in the wood of the door. He took a breath, staring at the second scuff, “I just woke up. I know what happened to Grif-”

Simmons groaned, rolling his eye and stepping back to close the door, “Would you guys just leave me alone about that? I swear to god-”

“Shut up and let me finish, Simmons.”

He let go of the door and crossed his arms over his chest, “Fine.”

Tucker looked to him now, determined to hold his gaze, “I know….Look, I came here to tell you that I am going to do everything I possibly can to get him back. I’m promising you that I am going to  _ try _ . I don’t know if it will work, but it’s happening. If my title as the chosen one means  _ anything _ , I’ll use it to bring that wide-load, trash-talking, face-stuffing asshole back to you.”

Simmons stared. And stared. And stared.

Finally, he shut the door, leaving Tucker alone in the hallway.

He snorted, turning away, “Well fuck you too, then.”

* * *

 

Turning the small bottle over in his hands, Washington wondered where on Chorus Grey managed to find nail polish in a war zone. A question for another day, perhaps.

He entered the room next to Tucker’s and was only greeted by one of it’s occupants. 

“Welcome to Casa de la Docnut, Agent!” Sarge announced, trying his very best to get a rise out of the sad blond slumped in the chair next to the bed. When Donut didn’t move, Wash responded.

“Thanks, Sarge. Hey Donut,” the lightish red soldier raised his head slowly, acknowledging the call but not looking directly at Wash. “Carolina wanted me to give you this. She said you should look good when Doc wakes up.” Washington walked over and handed him the polish, but he wouldn’t take it. Wash frowned, looking to Sarge for help.

Sarge nodded, taking the tiny bottle from Wash instead. The Freelancer remained where he stood, confused. “Sarge, what are you doing? That’s for Donut.”

The cardinal-coloured colonel just shook his head and opened the polish, “Well, maybe I want to look good for Doc too.” Ripping off a glove, he began to apply it haphazardly, spreading it across the skin of his fingers as well as the nail.

“You’re not doing it right.”

Wash turned back. The voice was soft, tired. It didn’t sound right coming from someone that was so normally vibrant and upbeat. “What?”

“I said he’s not doing it right. It doesn’t go on your skin, Sarge.”

Sarge grunted, capping the bottle in mock-anger, “Well then, I guess you’ll have to show me how it’s done then, son.”

Donut rolled his eyes, actually  _ rolled his eyes _ at someone in earnest, and stood, his posture giving off more attitude than his voice could manage. He pulled his chair to the table on the opposite wall and sat, gesturing for Sarge to do the same. 

When they both found a seat, Donut grabbed a napkin and fixed up Sarge’s mistakes. “I know what you’re doing. I’m not a total idiot, guys.” His speech was sharp, a sudden change from his shy, tired voice before. “But I’m not just going to sit here while Sarge wastes an entire bottle of polish turning himself into a rejected Smurf.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” Sarge defended, but winked at Wash once Donut looked down to his hands. “I just want to be pretty too.”

Wash’s eyes widened at Sarge, but didn’t speak. Instead, he left them to it, and escaped back out into the hallway he’d just been in not five minutes ago. 

Now it was onto managing his own distress.

* * *

 

Short, light taps echoed through the room, and the he couldn’t help but sigh in frustration. Why couldn’t anyone leave him alone? He could handle losing someone without being babied and watched like an infant 24/7. All of these people trying their hardest to do what’s right, but what was right was to  _ leave him the fuck alone. _

The taps continued as Simmons escaped his thoughts, rising from the bed where he laid to angrily retch the door open, nearly removing it from it’s hinges. 

The knocker, Carolina, blinked in surprise before raising an eyebrow questioningly at his intensity.

“Well?” His voice was scratchy and harsh, like he’d been screaming. 

“Tucker mentioned you were a vegan,” She held out a plate full of what little that style of life had to offer on the planet. “I’m assuming that’s why you haven’t eaten anything your lieutenants had brought to you previously. You should really keep up on your health, Simmons. You’re going to want to look good when the superiors arrive, right?”

“They tried. Thank you, Carolina, but I’m not really hungry right now. If you’ll excuse me,” he reached to shut the door, but her boot stopped him.

When he followed the shoe to her face, he saw the determination burning behind her gaze. “I have something you may want, but you need to eat something first.”

“I doubt you have anything of value to me, Carolina. Please, leave me alone.”

“I have his dog tags.”

Silence.

That surely got his attention. His resolve faded, and he began to stutter and fidget like he did back in that damned box canyon.

“W-What? You have his….?”

She held them up in her free hand, letting them dangle in the open air between the two. “You might have to share with Kai, but these are yours if I see you eat this entire plate.”

Simmons took the plate with shaking hands, his desperate eyes only glancing away from the tags once to see where his hands were headed. He took gentle bites of the food provided, watching the tags gleam in the horrible fluorescent lighting of the bunker.

Carolina smiled to herself. Mission accomplished.


	3. Ignition

A series of hisses and clips announced the finale of the soldier’s dressing. He looked down to the white plating, wishing it would return to the aqua it had once been. But, with a dormant AI, most functions of the Meta armour were disabled. Tucker wondered to himself how long it would take for Epsilon to recover after he had already taken a week to do so himself.

“You don’t look very good in white,” a voice announced from the doorway. Tucker turned to see Washington, actually out of his armour for once, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed across his chest. “I think you should put on your old stuff.”

“Pssh, good thing it’s not your choice what I wear, then.” Tucker shrugged. “It’ll be better soon. What about you? You never take yours off _ever_. What’s the deal?”

“I have been ordered by Doctor Grey to ‘enjoy the Chorus sunshine while I had the chance’....She also had Caboose steal my armour when I was in the shower.”

Tucker huffed a laugh at the Freelancer, “Maybe I’ll join you when I’m done. I should be back in a few hours.”

Washington straightened at that, keeping his arms crossed protectively, “Yeah, Carolina said you were heading out. Mind if I tag along? Where are you headed?”

Tucker shook his head before the other man finished speaking, “No. I need to talk to someone. Alone, dude. I need to fix this, and I don’t want anyone around in case I fuck it up.”

Wash’s face displayed several emotions quickly, one right after the other, and disappearing before Tucker could fully recognize each one. Hurt, understanding, fear, and something else….questioning? Secretive? Whatever it was was gone by the time Wash realized his expressions weren’t hidden by a helmet anymore. “Okay. But I’ll keep the radio open, just in case.”

Tucker made his way to the doorway where Wash stood, and was stopped by Wash’s hand on his arm, “Call me if anything happens, understood?”

Tucker smiled and jokingly shoved Washington off, “Of course, dude. Wouldn’t start a fight without you.” He moved past the Freelancer and into the hallway, “If shit starts going down, I’ll have Church send you a distress call. No problem.”

Wash stopped the sim trooper with a hand on his shoulder, “Tucker…”

“Geez, Wash.” Tucker turned back around, “I may just have to take you with me if you keep talking. But that just means no sunburns for y-”

“No, no, Tucker shut up. What about Church?”

“I said he can give you a call, dude. What’s your deal?” His voice changed from humorous to defensive in an instant, taking Wash’s wrist and removing his hand from his shoulder.

“Tucker….Church is dead.” Washington searched for recognition on the other man’s face. Not finding it, he added, “She didn’t tell you, did she.”

It wasn’t a question, but Tucker answered anyway, “No, she didn’t tell me. What do you mean he’s dead, Wash? He can’t be dead, he’s not technically alive. He’s probably hiding out in my head somewhere. He’s not….He can’t….What?”

Tucker swooned, his mind swimming in a panic. Washington stabilized the trooper with both hands on his upper arms, staring him dead in the eyes. “Tucker?”

He wasn’t listening, his mind slowly returning to the moment as he considered his plan for Grif. If it worked for him, why couldn’t it work for Church?

Tucker pulled away from Wash, glaring daggers straight through the Freelancer. “He’s not dead. He’s never dead. He always comes back, Wash. Always.” Turning on his heel, he made a break for the exit and refused to look back at the distressed marine yelling his name.

* * *

 

“YOU DIDN’T TELL HIM?”

The shout echoed through the mess hall like a warning cry. Those in the way quickly moved to make room for the steaming Freelancer. Carolina turned, hoping for his sake that he wasn’t talking to her.

Unfortunately, he was.

“Carolina,” his voice was quieter, but still laced with the same amount of anger as before. “You didn’t tell Tucker that Epsilon was dead?”

“No. He left before I had a chance to mention it.”

Washington held his face in his hands, pushing out an angry sigh, “So he doesn’t know the whole story. That’s great, Lina. Fucking perfect.”

“I hope you aren’t trying to blame this on me, Washington.”

“Yes-No-I don’t know.” He removed his hands and looked her in the eye, “I just told him his best friend is dead, and he ran off and denied it. He pushed me away. He’s not okay, Lina.”

Carolina shrugged, “There’s nothing you can do until he comes back. And even then it might take some time, just like everyone else.”

Wash threw his head back and sighed. “He’s angry. And stubborn. He might not come back at all.”

“Then follow him. He’s surely far enough now that he wouldn’t expect to see you behind him.”

“But I don’t know where he is.”

“He’s going to the Communications Tower. Just follow the trail and you should catch up to him.”

Washington blinked incredulously at her matter-of-factly tone, “How do you know where he is? He said he had to go alone, so I assumed he didn’t tell anyone where he was headed.”

Carolina shrugged again. Seriously, did her shoulders serve any other purpose? “It’s the only place on Chorus with someone else to talk to.”

Washington nodded and turned to leave. He stopped, a hand hovering Carolina’s shoulder, “Thank you.”

She brushed his hand away, “Sure. And Wash?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ever yell at me across the room again.”


	4. Credence

There was no way Church was dead. AI’s don’t technically die. He was just dormant in his mind, right? Whatever happened that night with Hargrove must have done a number on him if he needed this long to recover. Wash didn’t know what he was talking about. There was no way in hell his best friend was actually gone.

Unfortunately, the one he came to for answers crushed that hope completely.

“You’re wrong!” Tucker shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “He can’t be gone. He was just here!”

Santa startled, shimmering in front of Tucker, “I am not wrong. Your artificial companion has been erased. It is fact, and cannot be argued.”

He couldn’t breathe, his body gulping down air but somehow not being satisfied even after he ripped his helmet off. Was this how Simmons felt after Grif? How Donut felt everyday watching Doc slowly waste away on some machine? This was wrong. This was horrendous. Something needed to be done. This needed to be fixed.

“How…” he paused, trying to fix his breathing, “How can….I bring them….back?”

The AI studied him before responding. “There is no sure way of repairing the damage caused by foolish human squabbles. Their deaths here are permanent. However, there is a failsafe that may be of interest to you.”

Tucker’s head shot up, his eyes wide in desperation, “Failsafe?”

The AI nodded, “Should the population of this world dwindle before the Tower of Procreation can be activated, lost lives may be restored using a hidden feature within the heart of the citadel. It requires an appropriate key bearer to be enacted, just as all of my creator’s blessings.”

There was a beat of silence, save for Tucker’s erratic breathing, before it clicked into place. “You...You can bring them back from the dead with the sex temple?

“Not exactly. As reprimand for allowing the population to die off, the failsafe allows certain individuals to be…. _plucked_ from specific areas of time. They are chosen during their prime of existence, when they are at their strongest, in order to continue life on Chorus. Because of this, not all relationships or memories mirror those collected up until the time of death.”

“But they can be brought back with the temple? It’s that simple?”

Santa responded in earnest, “It is not. Like with all things, there is chance of failure. It must also be noted that this world and it’s inhabitants stand the chance of inheriting the miscalculated risks of your bargaining.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“The ones you bring back may not be the ones you want around.” Wash emerged from his place of hiding behind the corner, and Tucker whirled around.

“What the fuck, Wash?”

“Tucker, this is dangerous. We don’t know who else could get caught up in this voodoo and brought back to life too.”

Tucker screeched, “Did you follow me? I told you to leave me alone, you paranoid fuck.”

“That doesn’t matter. Do you realize what could happen if you undid everything that happened? What if you brought back the wrong person? What if you brought back Felix?”

“Of course it fucking matters! You don’t trust me! Not that I’m all that surprised,” Tucker bit back, appreciating the way Wash’s shoulder’s tensed at his words. “Who cares if Felix comes back? We can be ready for him! We can kill him again, no big deal!”

“No big deal? It is a big deal, Tucker. Someone else could get hurt or worse. It’s not worth it.”

 **_“CHURCH IS WORTH IT!”_ ** He screamed, a hand reaching for his throat not a second later with a wince. He was still sore from having a tube down his throat during his coma, and really shouldn’t be doing this right now but _fuck it_ . “You don’t understand. He was there. He was _always_ there, Wash, and now he’s not. He’s Church, he always comes back. He just...needs a little help this time.”

The silence that followed was much too painful for either soldier. Wash understood the need to save a friend, he’d done it himself, only to get shot in the back for his troubles. But he couldn’t allow Tucker’s despair to cloud his judgement, or to threaten the remaining population of Chorus. He sighed, relaxing the tension in his shoulders.

“How….” Tucker’s voice was even, void of anger or upset, “How did he die, Wash?”

Washington closed the distance, preferring to talk closer so neither would need to raise their voices across the room. “Once he was transferred to the suit, he couldn’t support the upgraded functions Hargrove added onto it. He split himself to divert his assistance to different parts of the armour, leaving behind seven fragments, one for each of the AI’s created by the project.”

Wash picked up Tucker’s discarded helmet and held it out to him, “One of Hargrove’s men knew how to take down the armour after we got there. You were doing good, the little guys were giving it their all….” His voice trailed off, thoughts filling his mind briefly. Taking a breath to clear his head, he continued, “Hargrove’s trooper knew the passcodes to shut down your armour from the inside. A concentrated electromagnetic pulse emitter built into the chest plate.” He tapped the metal for emphasis. “A..uh.. _failsafe_ of their own invention, should the armour fall into the wrong hands. It took all the power from your armour and left you wide open for an attack, but it also destroyed the fragments that he left for you.”

Tucker reached up, catching Wash’s hand in an attempt to touch the emp himself. Neither man pulled away, so Wash continued, “You did get hit, and you went down hard. We thought….I thought...that Epsilon had tried to kill himself again, but this was entirely different. He wasn’t in your head at all. He was in your storage.”

Tucker looked down and took the offered helmet with his free hand. He let it hang at his side, the tips of his fingers barely touching the rim and not caring if it dropped again. “How do you know all of this if he died?”

Wash gently pulled himself from Tucker’s grip before responding. “He left all of us a message before he separated. He sent it out to each of you to be stored in your armour and played when he’d estimated the battle would be over. There was another that played the second we brought you back. I can show you when we get back to base.”

Tucker nodded, agreeing with the offer. He replaced his head gear and turned back to the silent alien AI. “What all do I need to complete the process?”

* * *

 “You can _not_ be serious,” Kimball announced. “You can not seriously be considering bringing back god knows what just to reanimate your dead friends.”

She stood at one end of the table, with Tucker standing at the other. Between them on each side were the Reds and Blues, the two Freelancers, and a select few troopers from each side of the fight. Dr. Grey sat against the wall with a clipboard, scribbling down things at random intervals. The pen scratching the paper was grinding on Tucker’s nerves, but he let it slide to in order to continue this _very nice conversation_ with Kimball.

“I’m totally serious. If we ready everyone like Santa said, then no one will have to die. Dude, just trust me on this.” He slammed his hands down on the table, “We don’t have to be miserable here! We can get our friends back. We can even get Doyle back if we try hard enough.”

He noticed the change in her features. She didn’t jump when his armoured hands rudely greeted the solid wood of the table, but the second Doyle’s name left his lips her eyes were on fire. “While I would love nothing more than to have them back, I cannot authorize such a risk!”

Tucker sighed dramatically, lowering his head then eyeing Wash, who was still seated to his left. He thought for a moment before raising his head, “Alright. Then lock everyone downstairs in the bunkers until the UNSC arrives. I’ll go save everyone, and you and all your people can be safe here.”

“I thought you just said you need people there with you for it to work?” Wash asked, looking to Tucker.

“Santa said I did, but I might be able to get by with just myself. And if I bring back Felix? So be it. I’ll kill that cockbite before he even knows how to open his eyes.” Tucker’s determination reverberated off the walls, inspiring some of the undecided votes in his favor.

“I think he should do it,” Donut’s voice was small but certain, and all eyes looked to him. “I mean, if we can bring back the ones we’ve lost, that would be a good thing. We’ve earned it, haven’t we?” Beside him, Simmons lazily nodded in agreement, while Sarge grunted. Tucker gave them a small smile.

Kimball lowered her gaze, fixing on the carpet below her feet. She sighed, reaching for her helmet, “Do what you want, Captain Tucker. I was never really the boss of you anyway.”

With that, she left the teams alone with the biggest decision of their lives.

A literal life and death decision.


	5. Quixotic

Looking around, it didn’t really seem like anything had changed. Y’know, excusing the big orange hole in their group.

Tucker stood at the helm with Santa on his shoulder, looking over the sea of colorful armour. Soldiers that were each somehow brought together to be here in this moment. To be here to do the one thing that started it all: bringing back someone you loved.

It was all a bit ironic. Project Freelancer started because the Director couldn’t let anyone go. He clawed desperately for the love he’d lost, sacrificed himself to it, and still never achieved what he truly desired. And they were here because of the project, a bunch of misfits, as Kimball had once called them, doing the one thing no one ever thought possible. They were going to do something someone as powerful as the Director couldn’t, and Tucker was _so fucking proud of that_.

The sim troopers and both Freelancers stood before him. None of Kimball’s troops had tagged along. Some wanted to, but received strict orders to stay hidden in the outpost. _Figures_.

Tucker watched them all as they waited for the timer to tick away the last few seconds. Donut stood between Simmons and Sarge, with Lopez behind him. Sarge was grumbling about how they didn’t really need Grif back, but it would be good to have a living target again. Donut took Simmons hand in his, nothing but comfort in the gesture, and Simmons returned the kindness with a squeeze. They were all a bit surprised that Donut even left Doc’s room for this, but seeing him with Simmons made things much clearer. If he had to wait for his man to wake up, the least he could do was be there for someone when they got theirs; even if Simmons consistently denied anything more than a low-level friendship between him and Grif.

Caboose stood with Carolina, shifting his weight between both feet nervously. He didn’t quite understand what happened to Church. He was under the impression that he was just lost, and they needed to find him again like all the other times before. Tucker knew Carolina was eyeing him beneath her visor, making sure to keep the big oaf from doing anything risky during the performance.

In front of them was Wash. He watched Tucker examine the others before meeting his gaze. “I still think this is risky.”

“I know,” Tucker pulled out his sword’s hilt without turning it on, “But we have to do something. I’ve spent too much time wondering what could have been done. What we could have done after Caboose blew up Church that first time. How I could have protected Junior better from Wyoming and Tex. How we could have acted faster and kept Tex from dying against the Meta. even if I hated her, she was still important to Church. There’s so much that can be erased, that can be fixed, if we do this. We could get Grif and Epsilon back. Maybe a few others. I’m not walking away from this, Wash.”

“I never expected you to,” he replied simply, then turned to face the others, “Ten seconds. Places everyone.”

Separating, the group moved to be in an almost perfect circle with Tucker at the head. Going clockwise, there stood Washington, Carolina, Caboose, Donut, Simmons, Lopez, and Sarge.

Santa spoke for the first time since their arrival, removing himself from Tucker’s shoulder and floating in the center of the group, “The timer will soon expire.” With a wave of his hand, the floor before Tucker changed, twisting and coiling like a machine to bring a spherical lock to the surface.

Tucker was startled by the sudden change and took a step back defensively. He was stopped from going any farther when Wash put a hand on his back. _Damn_ he was handsy today [bowchicawowow]. He glanced at Wash before returning to the lock on the floor.

It wasn’t very large, maybe two feet in diameter, and glowed brightly. The lock slowly bled through several different colors around the rim; almost looked like Donut had dipped it in some iridescent paint to ‘liven it up a bit’ like he did with their gauntlets in the desert sun. Tucker shook the thoughts from his head when Santa announced the countdown.

“Three seconds.”

He looked around. Simmons fidgeted with nervous excitement, and you could easily tell that Donut was grinning under his helmet. Lopez was still. Sarge continued grumbling to himself, not caring who could hear.

“Two seconds.”

Carolina was stiff, stuck in an unyielding military posture. Beside her, Caboose trembled.

Was he scared? No, this was bad. Caboose used to run when he was scared. He did understand that he couldn’t move, right?

_Wrong_.

“One second.”

Tucker turned on his sword and stabbed it into the lock appropriately. Once inside, he raised his head to watch the terrified regulation blue across from him. “Caboose!”

But it was too late, the blue trooper had already started sprinting away from the scene and was out of the picture when sparks began to fly.

It began at the hilt of his key sword, blinding white shocks visibly creeping up his arm and encircling his torso. Tucker screamed as the pain brought him to his knees. He could hear the echoed voice of Santa above them, warning them of their failure. This was it, they blew it. Caboose left at the worse possible second. Maybe Tucker wasn’t strong enough to do what they were all here for.

What he could hear next was Wash, calling his name through the blaze and stars enveloping his vision. He could feel his hand coming to rest on Tucker’s wrist, attempting to pry him away from the cause of his pain.

No. No. He can’t do that. What if there was still a chance? What if this ended up working after all, and all they needed was for him to hold on?

Wash wrapped his arms around Tucker, the pain reaching through him and into the Freelancer. But Wash was stronger, he could take the pain. Yeah. He could take the pain, and still try to help Tucker. And he did, fighting as hard as he possibly could to rip Tucker’s hand free of the magnetic alien grip this procedure had on him, to no avail.

As it seemed, the blinding pain got worse thanks to Washington’s interference. Tucker felt it seethe every inch of his skin below the plating, strangling every last nerve in his body. He felt it amplify through his aqua armour and flow out into the open space of the tower-

Wait..aqua?

It was working. _It was actually fucking working holy shit._ Church had to be close if his armour was changing, right? He could hold onto that hope to get him through all this pain.

But hope quickly became the last thing on his mind as he saw the agony his friends were in too. The pain that tortured Tucker was passing through everyone else in the room as well. He could see it build, all the white bolts transferring pain eventually met at one point in the center of them all, doing exactly what Santa had informed them it would.

It was working, so now it was time to pull the sword and allow everyone to rest and see what they had accomplished. That became a problem when the key sword _wouldn’t fucking budge._ Tucker got to his feet and pulled with all the strength he could muster, still unable to remove the weapon from its sheathe. Instead, he found himself falling backwards into Wash, his hand finally able to release the alien device.

They clattered to the floor in a heap of grunts and armour, the energy around them pooling to the center of the ring. Tucker scrambled to his knees, the words of a panicked Freelancer falling on deaf ears. There was no possible way he could listen now, not with his armour flashing between white and aqua, beating in time with the pulse of the energy around them. Church was _here_ , he was _sure_ of it. Staring into the field of sparks, he swore he saw a flicker of blue before the white consumed it all, enveloping each of the soldiers in a blanket of blinding stillness.

* * *

 

Tucker came to for a second time with white in his vision, though this time the white was in motion. Surely it was a mirror, his own armour staring back at him as he moved about the space, removing grey and yellow limbs from around his waist.

A flicker of panic spread through his hazy mind. He couldn’t feel the arms and body that moved before him, that took away Washington’s protective grip from his prone form. He couldn’t feel his own limbs lying still as the reflection remained animated. When his twin gripped his chest plate tightly between massive fingers, a surge of memories alerted Tucker that yes, it is _perfectly_ fine to panic now because no, that is _not_ your fine ass reflection you are staring down, _its the mother fucking Meta._

A cry of surprise ripped it’s way through his lips when the Meta lifted Tucker off of Washington with such ease and tossed him aside, focusing on the downed Freelancer. Tucker was thrown a good ten feet without struggle. He grunted on impact and pushed himself up on his hands and knees. If they were gonna fight this cockbite again, it was going to take everything they had to take him down.

Wash stirred, awoken by the other man’s noises. His confused mind reached for the man that towered over him, his hand slow and shaky as his grip on reality strengthened. The behemoth knelt, taking the offered hand and used his other to send a flurry of agitated gestures. Wash lifted his head slightly and the other man stilled, “M....Maine?”

“Get away from him, asshole!” Tucker screeched. If he was loud enough, maybe Carolina and the others could hear and jump in before it was too late. He pulled the rifle off his back and aimed for the Meta, slowly stalking closer to his target. His finger twitched near the trigger, anxious to get this over with but the beast was still too close to Wash. “Now!”

Maine stood, stepping over Wash protectively and snarling a warning at the armed soldier. The stance had Tucker doubling back, trying to register when exactly the Meta had been pulled from. The only time he even remotely seemed to give a damn about Wash was when they were working together as fucking nightmares, before Sidewinder. He must think they are both still on the Counselor’s payroll.

Wash rolled over beneath Maine, his eyes fixed on the barrel, “Tucker, don’t!”

Tucker hesitated, thinking about the Meta’s existence took up more of his thoughts than he realized, and Maine used that to his advantage. He crossed the distance, ripping away Tucker’s gun and tossing it away with one hand as the other reached for his throat. He squeezed the fragile flesh, the other soldier helpless under his grip.

“Maine!” Wash called, scrambling to his feet and then over to the mammoth Freelancer. Wrapping both hands around Maine’s wrist, he pulled against the bigger man, “Stop!”

Maine released his hold instantly, letting Tucker fall to his knees, coughing and gasping. Washington knelt, propping up the once teal trooper with a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not the Meta, Tucker. It’s okay. It’s Maine.” Looking up, he added, “And Maine, this is Captain Tucker. He’s a friend.”

Either Tucker was already delirious over a momentary choke, or Maine was moving his fingers quickly and Wash _fucking responded to them_.

“You’re on a planet named Chorus. I’ll explain everything later, I promise, but for now we need to find the others.” Wash stood, offering a hand to Tucker, “I don’t know who else showed yet, so keep your guard up. We’ve made a lot of enemies here.”

“No shit,” Tucker coughed out, taking Wash’s hand and standing on unsteady legs. Washington’s hand slid up to his arm, holding him still. Maine’s eyes were drawn to their contact, his gaze burning a hole in Tucker’s bicep.

Looking around, the entrance of the tower seemed clear of their allies. _Clear of possible enemies too,_ Wash concluded. “We stick together. No heroes here, just find everyone important and get back to base.”

Maine stole Washington’s attention again, curled index fingers tapping twice in question before pointing to a stumbling form across the way, behind where they stood. Washington turned, shaking pink armour catching his eye-no, lightish red- lightish red armour caught his eye. “...Donut?”

The trooper raised his head, waddling forward, “Heeeeeey Wash.” He made it to the trio on his own, only tripping on his boots when he was an arms length away and tumbled into the largest soldier. Maine reached up instinctively, trapping the other between his hand and his chest, Donut’s left shoulder guard clanking harmlessly against his breastplate. He looked up to his saviour, leaning into his grasp, “Heeeey to you too, big boy.” Turning his head to Wash, he asked, “Who’s your friend? Looks familiar…..Did he go to our high school?”

Maine repeated his earlier gesture, tilting his head exasperatedly. Washington responded with his hands instead of speaking, _yes, he’s a friend._

“Donut,” Washington reached to steady the other trooper and pull him away from Maine, “Are you okay?”

“Hmm? Didn’t quite catch that...whoever spoke. My ears hurt, can we go home now? I need to get back to Doc…” His cheery voice turned down at the last part, head hanging slightly.

“Ears?” He thought for a moment before placing his hands on either side of Donut’s head, carefully removing the helmet with steady hands.

Donut was quick to quip with a gasp, “Agent Washington, you need to take me to dinner before undressing me.”

Ignoring the pink trooper’s comment, he heard a breathless _dude_ from Tucker and huffed his own _Jesus Christ_ upon seeing the full extent of the damage. From the neck of his suit to the lobe of his ear trailed identical dark red streams, mostly dried, on each side. The devices in his ears sputtered and sparked, leaving light burns on the skin. Wash quickly removed them, placing the hearing aids in Donut’s upturned hands.

“Oh….” was his only response, turning them over to see the broken, dying parts.

“Dude, the fireworks short-circuited your hearing aids. Grey’s not gonna be happy about that,” Tucker announced, taking the helmet from Wash and giving it back to Donut. “Can you even hear us?”

Donut didn’t respond to Tucker, instead raising his head to look at Wash, eyes wide in realization, “Wait, if my little hearing aids got destroyed by that painful light show, what about  more important stuff, like Simmons’ cyborg parts?”

_“Son of a bitch.”_


	6. Stitched

"No fucking way."

York sat up quickly and scrambled over to the other soldier lying with him on the cliff. The armour was different, but that colour was unmistakeable. He knelt next to her, hands hovering her body, unsure of where to touch to feel just how real she was beneath him. 

He settled for her helmet, unsealing it with a series of clicks and a hiss. The first thing to be revealed to him was her hair tumbling from its chamber, longer and lighter than he once remembered. He followed it to her face, eyes covering every inch of her skin. 

It was  _ her _ , but things were different. Setting her gear to the side, he brushed aside the long, wispy bangs that covered her forehead. Soft, gloved fingers traced the worry lines on her forehead, wondering how long it took for them to develop. The pulse against his finger had him sighing away years of pent up emotions. "Lina," he breathed.

She woke abruptly, sitting up and switching their positions so York was beneath her. She straddled his lap, pinning his legs with her own and raising her right arm to throw a punch.

York put his hands up immediately, allowing her to take him over. His voice betrayed him, normally unparalleled confidence swaying, "Shit, Carolina! It's just me; it's York!"

Her fist wavered, eyes hard and untouchable, holding his gaze through the gold barrier of his visor. Her lips pressed together in a line, mind working away beneath the mountain of greying ginger locks. He watched the loose strands break away from their band and dance with the breeze, distracted from her threat until she spoke, "Prove it."

"W-What?" he blinked, focusing on her eyes again. "How?"

She paused, lowering her hand completely. "Where did we meet?"

"Club Errera."

"How old am I?"

"30."

Carolina hesitated, but let it slide. The last time she saw York, she  _ was  _ 30\. 

He shifted below her, wondering if somehow he was wrong. Judging by the few bits of grey and the wrinkles, he was. "What?"

"Nothing. What's my name?"

"Ch-"

_ "CAROLINA." _

Both Freelancers jumped at the third voice. It projected around them, emanating from the trees just past their position. A man stepped out, rage rolling off him in waves. His armour was painted jet black with ruby red accents, resembling something predatory. As he moved, the sunlight reflected against the darkness, highlighting the sharp edges of his armour.

"I am going to kill Tucker." Carolina murmured, diving for her helmet. She replaced it with a hiss, not moving from her position on York's lap. "When I move, you run, understand? Don't question me, just find Wash. Make sure he knows Sharkface is back."

"That’s a dumb name..." York muttered. 

"Do you understand, York." It was more of a demand than a question, and he nodded.

Sharkface raised both hands, miniature flamethrowers ejecting from his cuffs, "C'mon, Carolina. If you come now, I'll be sure to leave enough of you for your boy toy to bury."

"We'll see about that. If I remember correctly, I beat you the last time we fought." Carolina raised her arm parallel to the ground and produced the bubble shield around her and York. "Sure you're ready for another beating?"

Sharkface moved his hands behind him, ready to propel himself forward. "I remember tossing your sorry ass off a cliff."

"I remember Wash and Kimball turning you into swiss cheese." Her free hand found the center of York's chest, giving him a series of taps to signal the countdown. 

_ Five taps. _ The shield around them flickered, catching York's attention. "Lina?"

_ Four taps. _ Carolina focused, pushing the device to work better without the assistance of an AI.

_ Three taps.  _ Bullets flew from behind the villain, causing him to turn around and meet the butt of a gun.

He stumbled back, hands reaching for his cracked visor, "What the hell?"

"You're about to get Sarged, dirtbag."

Sarge emerged from the brush with his shotgun, firing off one shot right after the other, forcing Sharkface backwards, closer to Carolina and York. The merc raised his arms, throwing flames to try to divert the bullets and burn the red trooper, and failing. 

The shells pierced his armour, but not his skin, so Sarge aimed lower, tearing through the undersuit.

When he stumbled back within a foot of Carolina, she dropped the shield and kicked his feet out from under him. Jumping up from York's hips, she twirled and straddled Sharkface instead, twisting off his cuffs and tossing away the fire-producing devices before delivering a hit to the center of his visor. She continued hitting until she felt the body still below her.

Standing, her eyes stayed locked with his helmet. He wouldn't be down for long, she'd learned that the hard way. York sat up but did not run as instructed, and she motioned for Sarge to come over, "Sarge, you confiscated Donut's handcuffs a few weeks back. Do you still have them?"

Lopez stalked out of the brush next, holding the item in question between two fingers as far from his body as possible. "No, pero lo hago. ¿Son para este idiota, o mierda rizado con su novio que eran sólo haciendo coito, en el medio de un campo de batalla?"

_ [No, but I do. Are they for this asshole, or kinky shit with your boyfriend you were just dry humping in the middle of a battle field?] _

* * *

 

"Um..hello? Doc are you in there?"

Groaning, he sat up and bumped visors with a blue helmet. North pulled back slightly to take in the soldier hovering above him, "Who's Doc?"

"Not you, apparently.  _ Gasp! _ Unless O'Malley has made you a different person again." The trooper stood, "I will take you back to the scary grey lady. She can fix you better."

"I'm sorry, what?" North stood, taking his surroundings. They were in a thin forest, with a large clearing a few clicks to their right. He returned his sights to the regulation blue soldier before him, who continued rambling despite North's lack of attention. "Wait, slow down. I'm not Doc. My name is North. What's yours?"

"I'm Caboose. And this is Freckles. Say hi Freckles."

"Greetings," an animatronic voice announced from the rifle, startling the sniper.

" _ Jesus _ . Why can your gun talk?" he questioned, taking a step back and raising his arms defensively.

"He wasn't always a gun. He was a military-class battle droid that got broken so agent washingtub and the grey lady made him better. Now he's a gun. A very good gun." Caboose spoke quickly, but North caught the important part.

"Agent washingtub? Do you mean Washington?"

"That is what I said, yes."

"Do you know where he is? He was really hurt last time I saw him. I need to make sure he's okay." North's tone was gentle and calming, an easy habit to fall back into.

"Yes. I think I know where he is." Caboose's helmet drooped and he kicked the dirt. "I do not think he will want to see me, though."

"Why is that?"

"I ran away."

North smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Caboose, I know Wash. I'm sure he won’t be mad that you ran. I think he'll be happy that you came back and that you're safe. Can you take me to him please?"

"Okay." Caboose looked up, stepping between the trees and surfaced roots leading to the clearing. About halfway through, he asked, "What was your name again?"

* * *

 

As Isaac Gates dramatically stumbled through the brush, he used every tree limb and rock for balance. He had been severely wounded, the bloodied ankle nothing in comparison to his wounded pride. His attacker’s henchmen got one good shot in and crippled the asshole bounty hunter. Then suddenly, as if by some backwards-ass magic performed by a shit-faced witch, he was in a damned forest, bleeding all over the grass. This was too much like a stupid fairy tale, he equated, and flat out refused to play the part of damsel in distress.

He touched two fingers to his ear, pressing the small buttons on his communicator to test his radio. “Hey assholes. Anybody out there? Siris? Locus?”

With no response, he hopped a few more feet to the edge of the trees to try again, “Sam? Are you there, buddy? Wu?”

He made it to the last tree, a young oak barely taller than Gates himself. “If any of you fuckers are listening, I could use a hand….or a leg. Ow.” Adding the small noise of pain to the end of his transmission, he hoped to garner sympathy in case his earlier actions at the mines caused his unresponsive partners to ignore him out of spite.

Gates propped himself up against the tree, looking out over to the other side. There weren’t any trees or bushes in the clearing to use as a support to get across. His only option would be the long way, skirting the edge of the trees.

He sighed, rolling his eyes in the company of _ no one  _ who could enjoy his annoyance. Something obviously happened if he went from the battle at the mines to a fucking enchanted forest in no time at all. Maybe Wu did it to get back at him for this whole mess with Lozano. Probably some ancient Chinese magic bullshit.

Wait, was that racist? Most likely, but Mason  _ did  _ share a family name with a twenty-first century mythically reincarnated warrior, so maybe he wasn’t  _ that  _ far off.

Flickers of colour caught his eye and he lowered himself carefully, biting back a hiss as his ankle protested against his squat. Two armoured men fumbled through the field, one white and the other a pale pink. Gates observed their wordless gestures. _ They must be using their radios. _

With his focus elsewhere, he didn’t have a chance to notice anyone behind him until an armoured hand reached in front of his face and covered his mouth. Another quickly followed, wrapping around his throat and cutting off his airway, putting his mind to work. He twisted in the assailant’s grip, pain in his ankle shooting up his leg to his spine. His hands came up to pull at the arms around him, clawing uselessly at the hard edges of the dark armour.

He kicked his legs out from under him, the edges of his vision speckling his gaze with fuzzy blackness. His chest burned with stale air, muscles aching from the lack of fresh air.

Gates felt the armour press against his back, trapping him to the attacker’s chest and hindering any further squirming.

“Felix,” a deep voice rumbled from behind, familiar baritone speech thundering through his spine. He relaxed a bit as the world before him blurred and darkened, putting a fraction of his trust in this slightly-recognizable force.

There was going to be  _ hell  _ to pay later if his gorgeous skin ended up bruised.


	7. Purpose

The stupid sky really needed to stop spinning like right fucking now. Seriously, if it kept going he was going to puke.

Closing his eyes, he took a long breath to steady himself. Fuck it. He took a few more before opening his eyes again, and was relieved to see the sky was straightening out.

He studied the sky for a moment. Should it be this clear? They were in a civil war, shouldn't there be smoke and fire and bullets? Why was everything so peaceful?

Shit. Was he dead?

He turned his head to the left, staring up at the large alien tower about twenty feet away. No, not dead. Down. He was down on the ground instead of up in the tower with the others.

Shit. Did they lose? Is that why it was peaceful, because everyone else was dead and he was the last survivor? How the fuck did he end up on the ground?

Sitting up, he noticed two things. One, his armour was gone, and he was in his workout clothes, in the middle of a warzone. Great.

Two, he wasn't alone as he thought. Shouts and gunfire erupted from somewhere behind him, and a small yell came from high up in the tower, but Grif couldn't tell who it was or what they said. 

He pushed himself to his feet and felt how weird it was to be out here without armoured protection. He would need to keep close to the shadows and avoid anything that moved if he wanted to get back to base in one piece.

Grif started his trek back to the tower, his steps slow and thoughtful. This wasn't the same tower the sims were fighting in, it was different. The markings on the side were smaller, less detailed. He wished Tucker or doctor Grey were here to tell him what they said. That is, if Tucker was still alive.

Maybe he got teleported. Maybe after tossing Felix off a cliff, Santa decided to remove them like an intangible alien bouncer. But that still didn't explain his missing armour?

He was only a few feet from the precious protection that shade provided when a series of familiar clicks reached his ears. They were soft, barely audible even in the silence since the gunfire stopped. He turned to the sound, his mind clawing desperately at the forgotten memories associated with those stupid clicks. Something in the back of his head warned him they were bad, but failed to provide him with any evidence of what they were.

He followed it, leading him several paces away from the base of the tower. His mind wandered, wondering what that sound meant, where the blues were, how the fuck did they end up wherever this was, and where the hell Simmons was. He was good at navigating, and could probably get them home real quick-

_ Simmons. _

Those clicks were from Simmons, he remembered now. The last time he'd heard that clicking, it was when Donut spilled that dumb chunky glitter in his cyborg parts and clogged them up. How it took all three of them hours to dig out every last fleck while Simmons struggled, trying not to cry out while they separated the plating from his skin one strip at a time.

He picked up the pace, almost in a jog and turning into a full sprint when the noises grew in volume. He spotted the familiar gleam of maroon and sucked in a breath when the chest plate rose and fell shakily, in sharp movements that were probably  _ not  _ healthy  _ at all. _

Kneeling on his left, he removed Simmons' helmet and set it aside. He gently slapped the human side of his face, earning a startled blink in response. "Simmons. C'mon asshole, you gotta wake up."

The robotic eye flickered to life, only to die shortly after. His human eye reflected that similarly, opening only to close again as his body used every last bit of strength to try to breathe. 

Grif frowned, looking to his partner's torso. It must be really bad if he wasn't able to wake up. His hands left Simmon's face and found their way to his chest plate, removing the armour one piece at a time and leaving it next to his helmet. He would have just tossed it anywhere, but really wasn't in the mood for a lecture once Simmons was conscious enough to give one.

Grif ripped open the top half of his undersuit when he realized he couldn't move him to get to the seam on his back. Any jostling could break something sensitive in his already struggling cyborg pieces. Stripping away the protective outer plating, he shushed the other soldier's whimpers with a soft drum of his fingers on the remaining patch of skin on his chest, tapping out an old ballad to soothe the distressed marine. "You've got to be quiet, Simmons. We don't know who else is out here, and I can’t protect you without my armour."

He quieted, so Grif continued. He opened panel after panel, fixing what little he could out here without tools. He sighed in relief when the clicking stopped and Simmon's breathing got deeper, more even, and began closing up. There wasn't much he could do, and what he did was good enough until they found Sarge and Lopez, or made it back to the base.

He was fastening the last seal when Simmons jerked, eye opening wide and the other lit up brightly, highlighting his cheek and nose with a green glow. He gasped, gaze zeroing in on his saviour, his human hand reaching to wrap around Grif's wrist tightly. "Dex."

"Heh, haven't heard that name in a while," the heavier man quipped. When Simmons moved to sit up, Grif shoved him back into the dirt, both hands on his quivering shoulders as he leaned over to use his weight against the smaller man. "Nuh uh. You are still pretty beat up. Relax."

Simmons nodded, his eyes never leaving Grif's face and his hand stayed bound to the other man's wrist. Neither trooper spoke, simply monitoring each other while Simmons took even, steady breaths. He studied the curve of Grif's jaw, getting caught in the rough patch of hair that curled around the edge, leading to his neck. He followed his path back, to the scratch of beard that poked out under his lower lip, bisected by the scar of mis-matched facial tissue. If he looked close enough, there was a bit of red among the burnt umber of his natural colouring. "It worked," he breathed. "I can’t believe it worked."

Grif leaned back, releasing some of his weight from Simmons’ shoulders, "What worked?"

"Tucker. The temple. They brought you back. We need to tell them you're alive."

"What the fuck are you talking about? Are you delirious from lack of oxygen? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I just fixed that for you. You're fucking welcome, by the way."

Simmons shook his head, letting Grif's wrist go, "No. I'm fine. It's you who wasn't fine, Grif. What's the last thing you remember?"

Grif sat back completely, laying his hands in his lap, "I remember we blew Felix off the side of the tower, Locus switched sides, and we were heading home. What makes you think I wasn't fine?"

Simmons reached for his gear, replacing all the armour and cybernetics, "That's all you remember? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. What the fuck is this about? And where the hell are we because that is  _ not  _ the communications temple." Grif tossed a thumb over his shoulder at the building, watching the other man work.

"We can talk about it later. Right now we need to find Tucker and the others." He pulled the helmet over his head and got on the radio immediately. "Hey, is anybody out there? Sarge? Wash? Hello?"

"Hello? Who is this?" A new voice answered back and Simmons stilled.

Grift noticed and shifted, leaning over Simmons to look through his visor, "Simmons?"

"T-This is Captain Dick Simmons of the New Republic Army. Who is this?"

There was a pause, and Simmons raised a finger to Grif's lips, who pushed him away. When the other voice returned, it was sharp and guarded, "This is Special Agent Connecticut of Project Freelancer. I have no records of a New Republic Army. Where are you stationed?"

"Chorus-wait, you're a Freelancer?"

"Yes?"

"Holy crap. You're not one of the crazy ones, are you? 'Cause we've had enough of that to last three lifetimes."

_ "Excuse me?" _

"Do you know Wash and Carolina? Or were you friends with Tex and the Meta?"

"Yes, I know them. Do you know of their locations? And what the hell's a Meta?"

"The scariest fucking mute in the galaxy. He was one of you guys.” He paused, unsure of what information to give the unfamiliar Freelancer. Deciding there was no harm in admitting his lack of knowledge, he replied, “No, I don't know where they are, I was trying to call them when you picked up."

Grif sat in silence, watching Simmons' helmet twitch every now and then to show that he was speaking to someone. Since he was helmetless, and not privy to the words floating about, he sat back and tucked his legs beneath him, keeping an eye on their surroundings. There wasn't much to look at, just overly bushy trees and the alien landmark, but he found himself staring at the field of green, wondering if the branches were strong enough for a rope swing like when they were kids.

A flicker of brown in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned to it, trying to focus on the being moving silently among the thick stalks. He tapped Simmons' leg in warning, only to have it swatted away in annoyance. His eyes refused to leave the treeline, slowly focusing in on the silver gleam of the barrel of a rifle.

* * *

 

"Enemy hostiles detected," Freckles chirped, startling North once again.

"What's that, Freckles? Whatcha see, boy?!" Caboose replied giddily, spinning around in a circle to check the area for others.

North pulled the sniper rifle from his back and held it close. Wouldn't be of much use in close quarters, but it was better than nothing.

"Hostiles targeting allies to the west, Captain Caboose."

"Oh!.....I do not know which way is west."

North grabbed his shoulders and directed him west, "There's a compass on your HUD, Caboose."

"Oh, okay!"

"Who's being targeted, Freckles?"

The device took a moment to check the area before responding, "Two allies. One hostile. Several allies arriving from the east, but will not make it in time."

"Caboose, let's go." North took off in a sprint, with the sim trooper on his heels. Stopping just before the edge of the clearing, he scoped out the vicinity, locating two men, one armoured, off to the side near a tall building. He voiced his findings to Caboose, who gasped in excitement. 

"That is Grif and Simmons! And Grif is alive! Simmons must be so happy!" he announced, shouting and alerting the allies in the clearing to their location, as well as the enemy.

North saw the shimmer of silver opposite them and fired, hearing a loud grunt and curse from across the field. Bolting from the shadows, he raced and jumped over the downed soldier, crouching in front of him with his gun aimed for the trees.

"What the fuck?" Grif shouted, leaning back as the new guy jumped in front of them. Raising a brow, he took in the armour color and relaxed slightly, "Doc?"

"I am  _ not  _ Doc. Why does everyone think I'm Doc?" North questioned with an eyeroll. "Who is Doc?"

"Some purple idiot nobody cares about."

"Gee,  _ thanks.  _ Maybe I should just let this guy kill you.”

Simmons sat up with a groan, turning to Grif, "I was screaming and forgot to switch my mic over."

"Yeah, 'cause  _ that's  _ important to hear. Lay the fuck back down, Simmons. You're still injured."

"No way! If we're gonna die I'm going to go down fighting."

"With what? Your bare hands? You don't have a gun and you are shit at hand-to-hand."

"Shut up, Grif."

"What happened to  _ 'Dex' _ ?"

_ "Shut. Up. Grif. _ "

"Both of you shut up," North chided. "You just had someone try to kill you and you're arguing? You guys are worse than York and Wash."

Simmons turned to the purple Freelancer, "You know Wash?"

"Of course. Caboose was supposed to be taking me to him. He's injured too. How bad are you?"

"His parts are malfunctioning. I got his lungs working, but the rest of him we need tools for." Grif answered, earning a glare from Simmons.

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit."

"What's going on over there? Simmons?" Connecticut's voice cut in, stopping the argument.

"...CT?" North questioned, the grip on his rifle lightening.

"North?"

"Wait, you two know each other?" Simmons looked back to North, "And your name is North?"

"It's not possible," North gasped, "You're dead."

"Obviously not, North." CT deadpanned, no pun intended.

"CT, where are you?"

"I don't know. But I picked up your shot and I can see you on my HUD. I'm headed your way now."

"I thought your name was Connecticut?" Simmons squeaked.

"It is. CT is short for Connecticut, dumbass."

"Uh oh."

"What?" North scanned the area with his scope, having already lost track of the hidden assailant.

"My friends fought a CT before. Except he was a dude."

"I'm clearly not a dude."

"I can tell."

North rolled his eyes, an exasperated sigh quieting both of them. “We need to move. Watch your six, CT. Set your trackers. I’ve lost sight of the enemy.” Looking back to Simmons, he added, “Can you walk?”

Grif stood, helping the other man to his feet. Simmons stumbled, reaching for Grif’s extended hand to balance, “Yeah….yeah I think so.”

“Good. We’re going to that tower. Do you know anything about it?”

Simmons nodded, “That’s how we brought you here. I think everybody else is up there still. Should we try to radio Wash again? Maybe Carolina?”

“No need.”

North swung his rifle around swiftly, aiming for the approaching teal soldier and the colourful trio behind her. The red one raised his shotgun while the brown one pulled a pistol from his holster and pointed it at the Freelancer. Only now did North notice there was a fourth soldier among them, a man in black and red tossed over the brown one’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry, his arms tied behind him with bright pink handcuffs. Another man stood off to the side, his armour coloured a familiar gold and white.

“York?”

“Hey, North.”

“Stand down, North,” Carolina instructed, “They’re with us.” Turning to look over her shoulder, she added, “You too, Sarge, Lopez.”

“Carolina?” North asked, lowering his rifle. “What the hell is going on?”

“Good question,” York mumbled.

“That tower,” Carolina started, tilting her head towards the alien temple, “brought you all here. You are on a planet named Chorus on the far edge of UNSC space. That’s all I’ve got for you right now. We need to regroup and get back to base before more trouble finds us.” She looked back to Lopez, who had lowered his gun. North followed her gaze to the soldier slung over his shoulder, curious what kind of danger he could have been to the project’s top Freelancer.

“Alright. I’m assuming you’re in charge?”

He heard the smirk in her voice, “As always, North.” She turned to Grif and Simmons, “Everything good here?”

“Y-Yup,” Simmons stuttered.

“Then let’s get a move on.”

North stood and York raised his fist for a bump. North complied, gauntlets scraping lightly in the quiet clearing. “Welcome back,” York said, and North’s helmet tilted questioningly. York shook his head, “Later.”

* * *

 

“There’s no one around here. Who the hell are we gonna find? They probably ended up on the other side of the fucking planet because Caboose broke the chain. Are you even listening?”

Tucker turned to Donut, watching as he scanned the field on this side of the tower. When he finished, Donut looked over at Tucker, obviously not hearing a thing he said, “I don’t think anyone’s here, Tucker.”

Tucker rolled his eyes and murmured, “Fuck me.”

“Take me to dinner first and I’ll consider it,” a new voice cut through, so feminine and smooth that Tucker went rigid. 

Donut noticed, “You okay, Tucker?”

“Who’s out here? Show yourself, sweetness.” Tucker tried keeping his cool, flirty tone. It wasn’t a voice he’d heard before, and Kimball’s warning rung through his mind again. This could be trap, a bad chick from Chorus’ past or something. Just his luck.

Movement from the trees to their left caught their attention. A purple soldier aimed a shotgun at Tucker, then at Donut, “Right here. Agent South. Nice to meet ya. Mind telling me where the hell I am? Or are we gonna get rough here?”

“South? You a Freelancer?” Tucker raised his hands placatingly and nodded for Donut to do the same.

“Yup,” she said quickly, “Now answer me.”

“Chorus. The planet’s named Chorus.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Same here. Got abandoned by the UNSC a while back. They’ll be here soon, though.” Tucker shifted, and South jerked the shotgun back in his direction, “Hey! Okay. Look, you know Wash?”

South tensed, gripping the weapon tighter, “What does he have to do with anything?”

“He’s searching the rest of the temple there with another one of you guys. Carolina’s around here somewhere too. We’re friends with them. And if you were in Freelancer, then you must be friends with them too, right?”

“Maybe,” South relaxed a bit, but kept her aim true, “What are your names?”

“I’m Tucker, and Deputy Deaf over here is Donut. His hearing aid’s busted and he won’t hear a word you say, so just talk to me, alright?”

“Fine. Let’s go find Wash. Turn around and show me the way in.”


	8. Found

“Look Maine, people are going to be really scared of you for a while until they realize it’s actually you and not someone else. Just stick by me until we get this sorted out, yeah?” Wash said as they walked down the same corridor for the seventh time.

Maine nodded, knocking his knuckles against his shoulder plate to get his attention. He signed, _ [We’ve searched everywhere on this floor. Next?] _

“Yeah. Sure.”

They moved to the next level together, their strides in menacing unison as they searched the floor. Neither soldier spoke, simply doing their jobs in peaceful silence.

Wash approached the last corridor and motioned for Maine to follow. They rounded it as carefully as the rest, stalling when a scraping noise came from farther down the hall.

Maine rolled his neck and Wash advanced, skirting the wall quietly and the sound became louder and more rhythmic as they got closer. He raised his forearms defensively as new colours moved into his vision and damn, he wished he had a gun right now. If not to shoot the new arrivals, then to shoot himself so he wouldn’t have to be put through those horrible jokes  _ again _ .

Wyoming was carrying an injured Florida down the hallway, arm tucked tight around his waist to support him. It was much too familiar, Butch with a tomahawk in his shoulder and Wyoming’s bleached white armour smeared with blood. That night at the docks….

Of course,  _ back then _ Florida had pathetically thrown the tomahawk back at the insurrectionists. He must have been copied from the few minutes just before that, after he’d fallen ten feet off a platform and landed flat on his back. Dude was durable to say the least.

Wyoming stops and looks between Wash and Maine, “Well, seems like we’ve got company, darling. Break out the fine china.”

Butch huffs a laugh and reaches for his helmet, yanking it off and letting his long braided mane fall loose. He looks to Wash with a wide smile despite his injury, and the youngest Freelancer expects nothing less, “And tea and crumpets, love!”

Wyoming nearly drops him right there, “That’s not all we eat, y’know.”

“It’s what  _ you  _ eat.”

“Fair enough.”

“Wyoming,” Wash starts, earning his attention, “What was the last thing you were doing before you ended up here?”

Wyoming looked to Florida, gaze lingering for a moment before turning back to Washington to answer, “Isn’t it bloody well obvious? We were hunting down our dear CT and one of those lackies got in a good one. Where is York? He was with us, yes?”

“I don’t know, but he’s probably fine. Let’s get you guys back to the main floor. The others should be meeting us back there soon.”

* * *

 

The guy slung over the shoulder of the brown guy, who later North learned his name to be Lopez and their hostage was Sharkface (seriously, what the fuck), woke just before they reached the base of the temple. He kicked and thrashed around, making Lopez stumble. Sarge stepped in, grabbing his legs and holding him still. 

Carolina sighed, “We should tie him to something in the temple. Do any of you have tools for that? Or do we just have to hope for the durability of Donut’s cuffs?”

“I’ve got some cable,” York offered. “Just gotta find something to stick him to.”

“South?” All heads turned to North, then followed his gaze to the lighter purple soldier rounding the corner. She had a shotgun aimed at two familiar lightish-red and white soldiers.

She started, her gun dropping to her side, “North?”

“Grif!” Donut shouted gleefully, rushing at the unarmoured man where he stood supporting Simmons.

“Donut-” The air knocked out of him as the younger blond launched himself at his teammate, the three of them falling to the grass in a heap of grunts and curses.

“Caboose!” Tucker yelled up, his head tilted back to glare at the blue soldier through his visor. 

“Hello,” Caboose answered flatly, peering out of an opening in the temple from several feet above them. “How are you.”

“How am I? Jesus fucking christ, Caboose! You ran off and the entire place fucking exploded! What were you thinking?” Tucker screeched.

North looked up and away from South, but her eyes stayed glued to him in silence. North smiled beneath his helmet, and waved to catch Caboose’s eye and take Tucker’s attention off him. “Hey there, Caboose. Where did you go? Did you find Washington?”

Caboose nodded. “Yes I did, Mr. North Pole. He was playing with a friend so I left him alone. I was also afraid he might yell at me like Tucker just did even though you told me he wouldn’t. So I went and played with Church instead. He is my best friend, y’know.”

Carolina and the simulation trooper’s heads all snapped to Caboose. Tucker was the first to speak, “You found Church?”

“Yes. He is up here with me. He said he wanted to sleep though, so you cannot come in right now. He is very tired and sweaty and needs to rest.”

“Sweaty? He’s an AI, they don’t sweat, you moron.” Simmons grumbled, trying to pull himself out from under Donut and Grif.

“He is very sweaty, Simmons. You are just dumb because you are not up here and you are not allowed to be because you are not his best friend so you cannot see his sweat.”

“Caboose,” Carolina starts, softly, “Church is my brother. I’m family. Will you let me see him? Make sure he’s alright?”

The blue trooper seems to consider that for a minute before accepting, nodding down to Carolina who then darts inside and finds her way up into the room. 

York pipes up, “Are we meant to go in too or…?”

“York?”

The gold-toned Freelancer returns his eyes to the main entrance, meeting a familiar pattern of tar and yellow. The grin in his voice is evident, “Wash! Oh hey, Carolina wanted me to tell you that Sharkface was back.”

Wash stopped where he was walking towards the doorway. “What? Where?”

“Right here!” Sarge announced, chuckling. “Dirtbag got the daylights knocked out of him a little bit ago. Got a closet we can throw him in or something?”

“Come on in and ask Santa. I don’t know about any closets. Did he hurt you guys?”

“Quite the opposite, Agent! I unloaded plenty of metal into his sorry ass and she beat his helmet in. Quite the sight! Wish I had been recording.”

“Oh. Okay then. Glad you’re good.”

“South,” North started while the others conversed, and she flinched. He frowned, “you okay? Where did you end up?”

She shook herself, her voice confident despite her actions, “I’m fine, North, jeez. Woke up in a broken bush. I think I fell out of the fucking sky.”

“Or a tree,” Simmons supplied, now standing again with both Grif and Donut’s help. 

“Everyone,” Carolina leaned out of the opening above, “You all should get up here, leave Sharkface locked somewhere, don’t bring him in here.”

* * *

 

There were way too many people in this room. There had to be a fire code for alien temples, right? They were for sure getting a ticket for this. All of them crowded in, surrounding a man in pale blue armour laid flat on the floor, panting and sweating puddles. Go figure, AI’s  _ can  _ sweat.

Carolina knelt next to his head, carefully wiping away the beads that collected on his forehead. They’d removed his helmet some time ago and now his green eyes tracked over everyone close to him.

“Church?” Tucker asked.

“Alpha. I’m Alpha, Tucker,” he breathed, eyes searching the crowd of colours for that shade of aqua and frowning. “Where are you?”

Tucker reached up and removed his helmet, remembering that he was wearing different armour now. “Right here, buddy. So what’s going on? Why are you all gross and fleshy again?”

“Talked to Santa,” Alpha took several breaths, working himself up to continue. “Said you brought me back, or you were trying for Epsilon. Whatever. Thanks asshole, pick the replacement over the OG.”

Tucker snorted, “There was no saving you, dude. You were long gone by the time we even got the chance to bring back the dead.”

“Still,” Alpha cracked a small grin. It faltered as he continued, “He’s here. I’ve got him. I’ve got them all. All nine of them are here,” he rested his hand on his chest.

“They’re...in you?” Simmons questioned quietly and all eyes fell to him.

“Heh..yeah, kind of,” Alpha replied, “got a hard reset, but not all the parts are working right. They don’t fit anymore, guys. I can’t….”

“He can’t hold them. He needs to let them go like he did the first time,” Carolina finished, staring down at Alpha, “We need to get him to Grey. She may have an idea how we can do that less painfully than the last time.”

“Does he have to let them all out? Can he like, keep in the bad ones so we don’t repeat history?” Simmons looked around, eyeing the room. 

“You mean Sigma and O’Malley,” Tucker muttered, glad that Donut’s hearing was bad enough not to hear this part.

“We can deal with that later. Right now he needs medical attention before his human body keels over from stress.” Carolina ordered. “Caboose, you carry him. North and South, make sure he doesn’t jostle him too much on the way back. Or get lost.”

North nodded and helped Caboose get situated. South stood on the other side, still quiet.

Sarge stepped up, “What do you need us to do, little lady?”

“Stick by Simmons in case he goes down. And Grif and Donut will need protection. Tucker, Wash, you two stay with them. York with me scouting ahead. Lopez, you stay behind with Sharkface. We will come back once we’ve set up a cell for him back at the base for containment. If he gets out of hand, put a bullet in his skull. Don’t take any risks, understood?”

“Si.”

“Good. Let’s move out.”

“Wait, uh,” Everyone turned to Wash, and he stood straighter, “I found other Freelancers earlier. They’re up where we were before the blast. Florida’s injured, he’ll have to come with us, but the others...You guys may not want them around.”

“Who else, Wash?” Carolina asked.

“Wyoming and Maine. Maine, not the Meta.”

Everyone stopped, the sims looking to each other in a panic. Simmons piped up, “You can  _ not  _ be serious, Wash. They both tried to  _ kill  _ us! Alongside  _ you _ , I might add.”

“Are you sure it’s Maine?” Carolina asked, her tone hard, emotionless.

“Yes. It’s Maine. And I don’t think Wyoming remembers anything before the break-in. Last thing he remembers is going after Connie.”

“Connie!” North exclaimed, earning a few eyes, “She was supposed to be tracking us down. She’s here, somewhere. Isn’t she supposed to be dead?”

“So are you, dude,” Grif grunted, and Simmons stiffened in his hold.

“We can explain that later. Call them down. We can’t waste much more time,” Carolina announced, pushing past Wash and waving for the others to follow.


End file.
